


The Green Eyed Devil

by Taz



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Historical Accuracy, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-11
Updated: 2011-05-11
Packaged: 2017-10-19 07:00:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/198187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Taz/pseuds/Taz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Duncan suffers from pangs of jealousy, but Methos explains how it really was.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Green Eyed Devil

_Christ!_ The holy body, surrounded by the elect, has come in glory to judge the quick and the dead made flesh again. With a gesture the saved rise and the condemned fall down, down to the barren shore of the stagnant river to be prodded by the devil. The devil wields the fork, but there are minor attendant demons, cavorting about him. They, too, are tormenting the lost. One of those minor demons is bending forward with back arched and arms akimbo. He’s looking over his shoulder, smiling with cruel satisfaction, as he farts, tufted tail up, in a woman’s face. The demon’s skin is blue but that brow, that nose… _a glint of green swiftly hidden by the sweep of lashes…_

 ****MacLeod knew that the fresco, pigment and plaster, was far from Seacouver but, for sure, that minor demon was sitting beside him on the sofa, hunched over a chessboard on the coffee table.

He fumbled to turn the page and hide the plate, but snakes of jealousy were writhing in his gut and his fingers were clumsy; the paper tore. He flung the book away from him as hard as he could. It struck the wall and, perversely, landed open to the same plate. Before MacLeod could move, Methos was up and across the room, and there was nothing to do but sit and stew while the book was retrieved. It was a revue copy of an expensive book and he’d broken the spine.

He closed his eyes, so he wouldn’t have to see the look Methos was giving him, and let his head fall on the sofa back.“I know,” he said, “it was a long time ago and we’ve both had other lovers.”

“This is about my forty-six century head start on getting the most nookie?”

“No. You can’t help being older than dirt.”

“What is it then?”

MacLeod didn’t have an answer.

A moment later Methos’s weight sank into the leather and drew them against each other. MacLeod didn’t pull away. He felt cold and boneless. Methos was warm. He could feel little puffs of air as the pages turned. They stilled when Methos found something that interested him.

He felt it, too, when the book was set aside. Methos turned toward him. An arm slipped under his neck and turned his head. “Don’t.”

“What is it?” A finger tapped his lip, insisted that he look. “My forty-six century head start getting more nookie never bothered you before.”

“I don’t know,” MacLeod admitted, ruefully. “No. I know we’ve both had other lovers and you can’t help being older than dirt.”

“But he was who he was?”

“Yes.”

“Listen to me, Mac. It was November. It was dark, I remember, and my companion that night was very, very rich, and we got very, very drunk. For some reason we concluded that it was exactly the night to commission a painting from the master. We staggered off to the basilica singing a love song, barged in and started climbing the scaffolding. The old man was furious and he came after us. Cosimo ran, but he got me – those great calloused hands and stonecutter’s arms – and I thought he was going to throw me off the scaffold.  Instead, he said I was going to pay for disturbing him. He needed a model, but I would have to do. He made me strip and take that tortured pose.

“And I posed, Mac. Drunk as I was, I posed. For hours. And I came back the next night, and the night after that, and the night after that. I froze my balls off and every time I went to scratch a flea bite, he’d shout, ‘Bastarde! Be still!’ My back was out for a month.

“ _’Feel as lit by fire, a cold countenance that burns me from afar and keeps itself ice-chill; a strength I feel two shapely arms to fill, which without motion moves every balance.’_ ” Methos said, “He didn’t write that about me. And, believe me, I tried. I tried, but sometimes, amazing as it may seem, over the centuries even my sexual charisma has failed to do the trick. Occasionally, the only thing some people find fascinating about me is the way I fart.”

 

5/10/11


End file.
